


The Silver Blaze Revival

by dracox_serdriel



Series: Series 3: Unfinished Business [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Season/Series 03, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Backstory, Case Fic, Depression, Drama, Drug Abuse, Forensics, Framing Story, Gen, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Makes Deductions, John Watson's Blog, London, Missing Scene, Multiple Cases, Murder, Mystery, POV Multiple, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Experiments on John, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Story: Silver Blaze, The Frame Job, The Science of Deduction, Vendettas, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracox_serdriel/pseuds/dracox_serdriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As James Moriarty's plans to ruin the name of Sherlock Holmes come to a head, those who knew the man struggle with the fallout of his suicide. Meanwhile, the investigation into the Bruhl kidnapping continues, and an old case threatens to come apart when Sherlock's work on the investigation comes under question. John Watson struggles to identify new evidence with the memories of the consulting detective haunting him, and a former (and possibly untrustworthy) witness comes forward with shocking information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Memorandum

**Author's Note:**

> **Canon spoilers** : Spoilers for all episodes of Sherlock through 02x03 "The Reichenbach Fall."

Sally Donovan walked down the hospital hallway, annoyed that she was the only one who thought following up on this case was top priority. As much as she suspected Sherlock Holmes kidnapped Claudette and Max Bruhl, that didn't mean he did it alone. 

She waved at Amelia, the primary nurse on the floor, before turning the corner of the hall that led to the Bruhl's hospital rooms. Donovan stopped in the doorway.

"Hey, Claude," Sally said. "You remember me?"

The girl nodded slowly. "Sally isn't it?"

"Yeah. Can I come in?"

"Okay," Claudette said. 

After Donovan passed into the room, the girl started screaming hysterically. 

"What is it? What?"

Claudette pointed out the door, and Donovan followed. She spotted the swish of a long coat going around the hall and quickly followed.

"Excuse me," Donovan said. "Excuse me!"

The long coat turned around. It was a woman with curly black hair. She wasn't terribly tall, just over a meter and a half, and something about her felt... _ill_.

"Sorry, miss?" she said.

"Uh, right. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan," she said. "Sorry, I was just – "

Something occurred to Donovan. It made her sick to her stomach to consider, but her job wasn't supposed to be comfortable.

"I'm Emily Riley," the woman said.

"Can I ask you to help me with something?"

"Well, I – I'm not all that well dear." 

"It'll just take half a moment, and it's very important," Donovan pressed. 

"What can I do for you, Detective Sergeant?" the woman said wearily.

Donovan walked in first, and after about a minute, Emily stepped in. Her coat was open as to not cover her face, but Claudette screamed anyway, clearly frightened out of her mind.

"Thank you, Mrs. Riley," Donovan said as she walked the ill-looking woman back out.

After she tottered away, Donovan cursed quietly. She had assumed that the girl recognized Sherlock Holmes when he walked into the room, but it wasn't him. It was his _coat_ , which was almost identical to the one Mrs. Emily Riley had on.

She despised the man, and she still suspected his involvement. But they couldn't get an identification out of a young girl who was scared to death by a coat. She'd find evidence elsewhere, she was certain of it. That being said, she had to fill Lestrade in about it.

There was no way for Donovan to know that, at that precise moment, Sherlock Holmes was standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, preparing to jump to save the lives of his three closest friends.

 

"You've got a concussion," the doctor told John Watson. "Do you have anyone to look after you tonight?"

"I – yes," John replied.

"Good, then I can discharge you," the doctor said as he handed off some paper work. "You have any questions?" 

John sat on the patient's table, his mind drifting out of focus. It had nothing to do with the concussion, though. Less than an hour ago, he watched as his best friend plummeted into the pavement. He felt for a radial pulse. There was nothing.

The words of Sherlock's last phone conversation with him echoed through his head. He claimed that he was a fraud. A _fraud_. Then he – he – 

"Doctor Watson?" the doctor asked. "Do you have any other questions?"

"Uh, no, thank you. I'll just, grab a cab home," he replied.

The truth was that Doctor Watson had hundreds of questions but none about his concussion.

 

John answered the same questions over and over again. "Can you tell me what happened?" Then, "Why did you originally come to Bart's?" The occasional, "How much do you remember about the conversation?" And of course, "What did he say?"

Luckily, Lestrade wrangled John a break and allowed him to go back to 221B Baker Street instead of into a holding cell. Something to do with being "taking hostage," then later concussed after watching his friend commit suicide. Whatever the reason, John ended up home much sooner than he'd imagined.

Except the flat wasn't right. It felt smaller somehow, the way some places look after all the furniture's been removed. John told himself it was the head injury.

Even though he knew it was rubbish.

 

Molly Hooper preformed the autopsy and confirmed that Sherlock Holmes died of blunt force trauma to the head. John stared at the coroner's report, which methodically categorized the injuries Sherlock received from the fall. Compound factures, shattered bones – 

John's breath hitched.

"You okay?" Molly asked him. "John?"

"You – you did the autopsy?" he asked her.

She nodded as her eyes became very wet. 

"H-how?" he asked. "I mean... how did you manage it?"

Molly looked at the floor for a moment. "It's what he would've done. Isn't it? Look at what's there."

"I can't even – read this, Molly."

"Don't think I didn't bawl my eyes out," she replied. "Because I did. More than once, but... a lot of people here think he's a fraud now. Colors their ideas about him. And I couldn't let any of them take over."

John nodded. "I just came by to, uh, say goodbye, Molly."

"Goodbye?" she asked.

"Well, I suspect I won't be seeing you again, now that Sherlock is... now that I'll no longer be working on cases."

"Oh, right," she said. "John, I'm sorry."

"Me too."

 

Lestrade wasn't allowed to investigate Sherlock's death. Donovan agreed that she shouldn't work on it, either, and both of them continued to work on the kidnapping of the Bruhl Children. 

Donovan told him about the girl's reaction to the coat about an hour before they got the call about Sherlock's fall. But in the past week, they've had nothing in the way of evidence or leads, which wasn't helping their already dire situation.

"Yes, sir, I understand that," Lestrade said for what felt like the hundredth time. "But Donovan is right. The girl reacted to the coat. Only thing we really know from her is that it was a man with black hair who was taller'n her."

It had become clear in the past week, however, that Sherlock Holmes was not involved in the kidnapping. 

John Watson had given a statement about their flat being under surveillance of some kind, which lead to the recovery of several cameras. After a whole lot of technical crap Lestrade didn't really care to understand, they managed to identify where the video was being sent. More technical crap confirmed authenticity and the timestamp, and it proved one important thing: on the night the children were abducted, Sherlock Holmes was in his flat annoying John Watson with his violin.

Donovan, of course, started looking into the activities of one Richard Brook, the actor Sherlock supposedly hired to play the criminal mastermind Moriarty. She discovered that, on the night of the kidnappings, said man spent the entire night with a local tabloid reporter.

"Then who the hell kidnapped these kids?" Lestrade asked. 

"I dunno," she said. "Running financials on Holmes didn't get me anywhere."

"'Course it didn't."

"What's that suppose to mean?" she asked.

"It means that the only reason you were suspicious to being with was the girl's screaming, and you yourself proved that it wasn't even him she was reacting to! Just his coat!" Lestrate shot back. 

"So you're saying you don't think Sherlock is involved? Still?" she asked incredulously. "Even after what he said to John on the phone?"

"I'm saying that we've never had any evidence that Sherlock was involved," Lestrade replied. 

"Right," Donovan replied shortly. "We want to close this case? Then we need to figure out something, anything, to keep it active. Because by this time next week, we're gonna have a lot more on our plates, courtesy of that freak."

Lestrade replied, "His name was Sherlock."

"Whatever."

It was partially true. Now that Sherlock's character was coming under question, all the cases he assisted on were also being questioned. Fortunately, most of the cases had strong forensics and witness testimony. Sherlock gave them direction but not answers.

Unfortunately, there were a handful of cases that relied solely on Sherlock pulling answers out of his hat. Donovan was right to assume they'd be pulled off this case if they couldn't find anything in the next day or so.

The trouble was that he had no idea where to look now.

 

Two weeks after Sherlock died, Mycroft took over the rent for the flat, insisting that he need time to decide what to do with his brother's possessions. He and John did not discuss the real reason, nor did John broach the topic of James Moriarty. It hardly mattered anymore, now did it?

Oddly, John's abandoned blog became even more popular as the papers continued to print slanderous things about Sherlock Holmes. Apparently a fraudulent private detective was more web-worthy than an honest one. It made John's head hurt, and he considered more than once taking the damn thing down. 

But that felt so _final_ , and John wasn't ready to slam that door just yet. 

Mrs. Hudson spoke up, "John, dear? You've a visitor."

"Ah, thank you," he said. He looked up to see Greg Lestrade in his flat. 

"You've some nerve to come here," John said dangerously. 

"He was my friend, too," Lestrade said defensively. "In a manner of speaking, anyway."

"Except for arresting him – "

"Boys," Mrs. Hudson said, "if you'd please. I'd like to take a nap and don't want too much carrying on."

John nodded. "My apologies, Lestrade. Please do come in." His voice was stiff and measured, but he did mean it. Mostly. 

"I need your help," Lestrade said. "One of the cases you and Sherlock worked, it's – the guy is trying to get the charges dropped."

"Because everyone believes Sherlock was a fraud."

"I don't," Lestrade said. "We know the guy did it, John, but I've got dozens of other cases I've gotta look over, and..." he struggled for a moment but finally finished with, "I can really use your help."

"All right," John said. If Molly Hooper could keep her head on straight and stare at Sherlock's dead body as she did his _autopsy_ for the sake of his memory, then John could certainly help Lestrade for the same. "Which case?"

"You remember the one, about four months ago, with the weird evidence?" Lestrade asked. "I think you wound up calling it The Frame Job."

John pulled the text up on his computer. It was one of the shorter entries, only a dozen or so paragraphs.

"Oh, right," John said. "That one. It was between two other cases that we were more involved in. I meant to go back and update the entry with my notes when I got a chance, but I never got around it."

"So you do have more notes? More information?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes."

"Let's see it then."


	2. The Frame Job, A Lesson in Watermelon

Four months before Sherlock Holmes jumped from Bart's rooftop, John walked into Sherlock's lab at that very building just in time to be splattered with fruit innards.

"I knew it!" Sherlock yelled from down the counter. "The wife couldn't have done it!"

John took a moment to wipe the bits of seed and fruit juice from his face before really examining the lab. Apparently, Sherlock had launched some kind of projectile at a watermelon. It was the last of three test subjects. 

"Sorry, what?" John finally asked.

Sherlock indicated the injured fruit, "Do you see that?" 

"You mean the three watermelons you've decimated?" John asked.

"No, of course not! I'm talking about the splatter," Sherlock said with exasperation. "Look!"

"What about it?"

"It _proves_ , conclusively, that Rachel Fulmer did not murder her husband," Sherlock declared.

"Fulmer?" John said, fumbling with the name. They were juggling two cases at the moment, but the name 'Fulmer' wasn't part of either. "Hang on. Isn't that the murder in the flat? The one you didn't want to take?"

"That was before Lestrade told me that they had evidence the wife killed him," Sherlock rebutted.

"I don't understand."

Sherlock mimed a gun in his hand. "The gun was near the victim at the time of the murder, so it stands to reason that the hand holding the gun would be, too. So how is it that the Rachel Fulmer only had blood on her gloves?"

"You mean, other than, what, eyeballs?"

"Flecks of skin, brain matter, saliva, anything," Sherlock said. "See the spatter patterns? Someone firing at such close range would have gotten more than just blood on their gloves."

"You're exploding melons in your lab to prove the killer should have more than blood on their hands?" John asked.

"Only because Molly couldn't get human heads on such short notice," Sherlock said. 

John replied, "Of course. If you can't find a – "

"Check the counter top, over there," Sherlock interrupted as he returned to his microscope.

John turned and found a pair of leather gloves. "What's this?" he asked.

"Put them on for me, will you?"

He felt ridiculous as he fumbled putting gloves on with watermelon juice dripped from his hair, but Sherlock usually had good cause – or at least _some_ cause – to ask him to participate in such exercises. So he continued without complaint.

"What now?" John asked. 

"Now, I need you to go over to the other counter and take them off."

"You wanted me to put these gloves on just to take them off again?" John asked for confirmation.

"If I told you why I asked you to do it, it would ruin the experiment, John," Sherlock replied, his eyes still fixed to his microscope. "Now, please."

John did as asked, not entirely thrilled to be subject to another 'experiment' as it happens, but curious nonetheless. 

"Are they off yet?" 

"Hold on," John replied as he worked them off. "These aren't bloody kitchen gloves, now are they?"

After pulling the right one off, finger by finger, he placed it on the counter. Then he worked the left glove off just the same: lifting the fabric off his hand at the knuckle of each finger and then removing the rest of it so he wouldn't turn the glove inside out.

"They're off," John said.

Sherlock stood up from whatever he'd been staring at and joined John at the counter. Without saying a word, Sherlock started in with an odd light and powder, and in a matter of minutes he stood triumphantly finished next to John, who had taken the time to wash his face and hair of melon.

"I knew it," Sherlock said. 

"Knew what, exactly?" John asked.

"They found gloves in one of the outside bins, John," Sherlock said, handing off a few crime scene photographs. 

The first was of two fine leather dress gloves uncovered in a waste bin. The second was a photograph of them before they were bagged; it showed quite clearly that there was blood. As he continued to flip through them, Sherlock continued speaking. 

"Rachel Fulmer's gloves. Lestrade said she confirmed that in interview. They were covered with her husband's blood and gunpowder residue. The only fingerprints found were inside the glove, and they were _hers_."

"So...she did do it, didn't she?" John asked. "I mean, if these are her gloves, then – "

"John, really _look_ at them!"

"Uh, I see a pair of gloves," John replied. "Clearly she ditched them in a bin outside thinking no one would find them."

"As ever, you see everything but consider nothing," Sherlock focused his light on the left glove. "See those, John?"

John stared at his own smudged fingerprints on the outside of the glove. "So what? They're dress gloves, you don't just snap'em off, Sherlock."

"They only found fingerprints on the _inside_ of her gloves, John," Sherlock said. "And, as you said, no one would just pull them off. Molly tried, but she wound up leaving fingerprints all over the wristband. Her second attempt left prints along the finger pads. So how is it that Mrs. Rachel Fulmer was able to remove her gloves, which were covered in blood, without _touching_ them?"

"She could've, I dunno, used a glove on her other hand when she was – "

"That would've left trace, smears, compression marks, John," Sherlock dismissed. "But it didn't. The blood and residue were on her gloves, certainly, but the only logical explanation for their state – that is, there is no indication that they were removed after the murder – is that the blood and residue came into contact with the gloves _when they were not on anyone's hands_."

"You think this is a frame job?" John asked.

"I know it is," Sherlock said. "The watermelon spatter makes that very clear."

"Sorry?"

"The neighbors called about the shouting match the Fulmers were having before the call, but not one of them heard a gunshot."

"Right, Lestrade said the gun must've been suppressed somehow."

"It had to have be a true suppressor," Sherlock said.

"You mean because he was standing upright when he was shot?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, John. That and a makeshift suppressor doesn't muffle the sound that efficiently, not to mention leaves quite a mess. Everything about this murder says premeditation."

"Because of the suppressor?" John asked.

"No, because of everything," Sherlock said. "The gun was fitted with a true suppressor, that's why the neighbors didn't hear it. The killer executed the plan immediately after a domestic dispute because the plan was to frame Rachel Fulmer from the beginning. Then he – which is statistically more likely – left the flat somehow attracting no suspicion, and disposed of those gloves so that it would take effort to find but specifically so that they _would_ be found."

"Okay, then, who did it?" John asked.

"No idea," Sherlock said. "We need more to go on... start with his PA."

"Okay, but – "

"Lestrade said he'd text you the address," Sherlock said, cutting him off. "Get me data."

"Of course."

"You should also phone Lestrade and tell him the wife didn't do it."


	3. Rogue Agent

Lestrade nodded through John's notes from the lab. 

"We dismissed the charges from the wife because of _watermelon_?" he asked.

"No, you dismissed them because she's not guilty. The watermelon just gave Sherlock something to shoot at," John replied. "I know I've more notes, just not where they are at the moment."

"Right, well, to give you an idea," Lestrade produced a newspaper with the headline: BURKHART FRAMED BY ROGUE AGENT. "This is what we're up against."

"Sherlock? A rouge agent? Sherlock isn't an agent of anything," John said. Then he corrected himself, "Wasn't."

"Yeah, well, since Sherlock proved that Mrs. Fulmer's gloves weren't proper evidence..." Lestrade began.

"Are you serious?" John said. "The man shot someone in the face, he can't just walk – "

"Apparently he can," Lestrade cut in. "And he will if we don't figure this out. He's saying that the missing evidence proves that he's innocent and that whoever framed him was paid by Sherlock."

"Sorry, what missing evidence?"

"We never did find the suppressor," Lestrade said. "And Sherlock said he wore gloves."

"Except he can't admit to that, can he?" John said. "Not without confirming he's the killer."

"No, but once the defense asks why no neighbors reported gunfire, we'll have to assume they'll get onto the topic of the suppressor."

"Okay, so, I guess our next move is to find the suppressor, then, isn't it?" John asked.

Lestrade laughed. "We went over his house with a fine-tooth comb. His locker at work, everything, and turned up nothing."

"Okay, well, let's start with the obvious question. How did we get onto him as a suspect?" John asked. 

"Sherlock."

"Right, but how?"

"He's Sherlock."

"You remember anything he said at the crime scene," John said.

"Do you?" 

"I wasn't there!"

"You weren't?" Lestrade asked. 

John rolled his eyes down. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only one to assume he was present at all times. "No, I wasn't."

"Sorry, long week," Lestrade offered. "Uh, he pissed Anderson off... something about the blood spatter. And then he went on about the gloves, then... he checked the bathroom and the kitchen."

"I thought he was killed in the den?"

"He was, but Sherlock went on and on about the plumbing," Lestrade replied. 

"Why?"

"He was insistent that the killer would've had to wash up before leaving but only had about four minutes to do so."

"Because whoever it was managed to leave the building without drawing any attention," John confirmed. "Which would be unlikely he was covered in blood. Right. So plumbing was involved?"

"Theirs had recently been redone," Lestrade replied. "So I inquired and the building manager told me about the plumber they used, always the same – "

"Clyde Burkhart."

"Yeah."

"So, he was the plumber in the building, and we suspected him because of the pipes?" John asked. "Doesn't make a lot of sense, now does it?"

"No, but Mrs. Fulmer filed several complaints on him for inappropriate behavior."

John thought hard about it. "Hang on," he said. "I've got something about this."

He fumbled through a few boxes and pulled out an old notebook. Lestrade waited, counting the number off odd items in the flat. He stopped when he hit twenty. 

"Here it is," John said. "Where was the gun before the killer came in? Carrying in London too dangerous when waiting."

"The hell does that mean?"

"Sorry, notes can be a bit sketchy," John said. "Basically, the killer was planning on framing the wife. He waited for them to have a bad row as part of it. But he couldn't very well walk around with a handgun on him at all times waiting for his opening."

"You think he planted the weapon in the flat before the night of the murder?" 

"A plumber would've had all the access needed," John said. "That's why Sherlock suspected him."

"Doesn't explain the cleanup, though," Lestrade said. 

"No, it doesn't." 

"But it can still help us," Lestrade said as he took out his mobile.

"Hang on, what?"

"If he put the gun somewhere in the house for long enough, it'd've left a residue."

John smirked. "So, what? You're going to check everywhere in the flat for gun oil?"

"No, just the pipes," Lestrade said, rushing off.

 

After about two hours of fruitless searching for the other notes, John shared dinner with Mrs. Hudson, who insisted on shepherd's pie. 

"You look peaky," she said when John offered to clear dishes.

"One of the cases Sherlock and I worked on is, well, falling apart. With him gone, you know?"

"I do, dear," she replied. "You know, with all his carryings-on, sometimes I forgot how much good he did. How much he won't get to do now."

John's throat went dry at the very thought, and he made an excuse to retire upstairs. He sat in the chair he always sat in, grabbed the paper that he left in the same spot everyday, and tried to read it.

He gave up after about five minutes. Hadn't it been enough time yet? He shouldn't expect Sherlock to pop into the living room with his violin or harpoon, depending on the day of the week. He shouldn't expect Sherlock to leave breadcrumbs for this case; that was, after all, his brilliance. He went from two steps behind to ten steps ahead because of a leaf or the color of a suitcase. But John needed to accept that Sherlock wasn't going to appear and fill in the blanks with that same annoyance in his voice. 

So John scraped together the notes he had, including the handful Sherlock had scribbled down and handed off during the investigation. Normally he kept better records, but the case was solved fairly quickly, for all its stops and starts, once Sherlock was involved. 

The finicky bastard wouldn't really look at a case unless it was _interesting_ , and he didn't bother with this case until he discovered that the killer had enough wit to frame someone. 

To organize his thoughts better, John started a list of questions. The first one was "How did the killer leave the flat without drawing attention?" The next question that occurred to him was, "How did he get inside?"

It made sense that however he managed to do one would likely indicate how he did the other. Clyde the plumber couldn't hope to get into the flat unless there was an incredibly convenient leaky pipe, so it must've been –

John's eyes spotted a napkin imprinted with a name: Dragon's Bowl. It had a note on it that was clearly in Sherlock's scrawl: DELIVERY. 

"Shit," John said to himself. "That's – he didn't..."

But he _did_. Sherlock figured out how the killer got in and out. John just couldn't figure how he didn't show off about it once he had the chance. No one would look twice a man delivering food to a flat, even though it was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger with a bag. Add a recognizable uniform with a hat and Clyde would've been practically invisible.

John smiled weakly. Maybe Sherlock wasn't going to pop back into the flat, but apparently he could fill in the blanks.


	4. The Frame Job, A Lesson in Safe Tea

"Lestrade?" Sherlock answered his phone. "Yes. The plumber, right? We'll be there. Text us the address, will you?"

He hung up as John came down from his bedroom. 

"Get dressed," Sherlock said. "We've got to get there as soon as possible."

"Get there? Where? We just finished – "

"The Fulmer case!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Lestrade is going to search the plumber's residence now. We need to be there."

John was in his robe and hadn't planned to change until after breakfast, but apparently he no longer had days off, even when their cases were dry.

"Hold on, you're telling me you answered your phone?" John asked. 

"Yes, of course."

"Sherlock, you _never_ answer you phone."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I do," Sherlock bristled. "Especially when we've got a case."

John bit his own lip to prevent himself from yelling. Sherlock hadn't answered his phone once for the duration of their last case, which involved chasing down a particularly clever artisan thief. The lack of communication caused more than one close call, yet here he was at an ungodly hour of the morning answering his damn mobile like it was natural.

Mrs. Hudson was right. They'd never really know what was going on inside his funny head.

Sherlock noticed that John hadn't moved. "Come on, John, either get some clothes on or grab a bed sheet, I'm not partial."

"Right, give me five minutes," John replied as he tottered up the stairs.

 

"This is the watermelon case?" John asked in the taxi. "Isn't it?"

"What?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused for a moment. Then he cottoned on. "Oh, right. Yes, I suppose. But as I said before, that was because human heads were in short supply."

"What exactly are we doing?" John asked. "I mean, you cleared the wife, found this guy. Isn't the rest of this stuff up to Lestrade?"

"I want to know, John."

"Know?"

"He nearly framed an innocent woman in the death of her husband," Sherlock said. "I want to meet him."

"That's why we're going?"

"This man is cunning, John," Sherlock said. "I can't be certain he will be undone by the likes of the police. He'll have taken precautions."

"So basically you're curious if he's some kind of mastermind," John said, mostly to himself.

"Aren't you?"

 

By the time they arrived at Clyde's flat, Anderson and the forensics team had already had the run of the place. 

"Sherlock, they've found nothing," Lestrade said. "And I've got people breathing down – "

"Have you checked the contents of his safe?" Sherlock asked.

"His safe?"

"Yes."

"He doesn't have a safe."

"I assure you, he does," Sherlock said as he walked into the flat. 

"Sorry," John said to Lestrade. "I'll just..."

He didn't finish his sentence; instead, he followed Sherlock inside. The building itself was decent, but the owner let all the furniture fall into disuse and the overall feeling of the place was shabby.

The living room was particularly odd because the windows were covered with tin foil, preventing any sunlight from coming through. The center of the room sported a large coffee table that was covered with unusual blotches, and the adjacent couch had nothing but piles of towels on it. There was also an odd, chemical smell to the place, like a mix between sulfur and vinegar, or maybe it was ammonia. John couldn't tell, but he found it entirely unnerving, since he could see nothing in the room that should emit such an odor.

"Wow," John commented to himself.

Sherlock had already made short work of the room, of course, and he seemed annoyed at John's lengthy consideration of the room. 

"We need to find his safe," Sherlock insisted. 

"You think this guy has a safe?" John said, indicating the state of the flat.

"This building isn't cheap, John, so clearly the condition of his residence is a reflection of his state of mind and not his wallet," Sherlock said. "He'll have a small safe, just big enough for standard files and a gun. Where should it be?"

John cast his eyes around the room, trying to spot any indication that a safe might be there. All he saw was threadbare decorations and dust. 

"Can't be in here," John said. "All the dust would give him away."

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "John, you're a genius!" Then he swept off into the bathroom. John wasn't sure what Sherlock meant by that – honestly, half the time he wasn't sure what Sherlock meant at all – but there was no way he was following another man into the loo. 

"No," Sherlock said a few moments later. "Nowhere for a proper safe."

Then he waved John into the kitchen. "It's got to be in here, John."

"The safe?" John asked. "Why not the bedroom – "

"No, no, no!" Sherlock said. "Just as you said, the dust would give him away. He put his safe somewhere that is used constantly. His living room isn't ever used, his bedroom is the same. Bathroom is too small, so that leaves the kitchen."

Indeed, the kitchen showed signs of usage that the other rooms did not. The counter was wiped clean, and several dishes were scattered throughout. As soon as they entered the kitchen, a tall, weedy man accosted them.

"Who are you?" Clyde Burkhart asked. He had a pinched face and oddly large eyes, and his dark clothing made him look sickly thin.

"We're with the police," John said.

Sherlock ignored him entirely. His eyes wandered around the room, scanning for hiding places. His search stopped when he noticed an electric teapot on the counter opposite the microwave, which was clearly the most-used appliance.

Without a word, Sherlock walked over to the microwave and pushed it away, uncovering a small wall safe.

"What do you think you're doing?" Clyde demanded.

"Aha," Sherlock said, continuing to ignore the third man. "Never use a pun to conceal the truth, John."

"Hey, that's private, and there's nothing there!" Clyde retorted.

"Those two facts are in complete opposition, you do understand," Sherlock replied. 

Donovan suddenly joined them, causing Clyde to jump back slightly. The man locked his eyes on his own shoes and became very still. 

"Hello, Freak," she said to Sherlock. "And John."

"Sally," John replied quietly. 

"Can you move it along? Some of us have real jobs," she said harshly. John swore he heard Clyde whimper.

"Donovan!" Lestrade yelled from the living room. 

"Right then," she said as she bowed out.

Lestrade joined them with a quick, "Sherlock, what's going on?"

Clyde relaxed again, as if Lestrade had come to rescue him from the evil man in the long coat. "They're poking around my home, that's what!" Clyde replied.

"You have a look in here yet?" Sherlock asked.

"He's got a safe?" Lestrade said dumbly. "No, we didn't – "

"There's nothing in there!" Clyde interrupted.

"Then give us the code," John said evenly. "We peek in, see there's nothing, then put the microwave back. No harm done."

Clyde's expression was smoldering rage, but he made no additional protests. He also refused to give them the passcode.

"Can't think of it right now," he said. "I wrote it down, but I never use the thing, so – "

"Many items in your possession suffer from disuse, Mr. Burkhart, but this safe isn't one of them," Sherlock replied. He considered the man's clothing, his watch, and his posture for a moment. "I'm sorry, I know this is an odd question," Sherlock said, his body language spinning on a dime, "but is your birthday the thirtieth of the month?"

Clyde's face contorted, but he answered anyway, "No, it's the sixth of September."

Sherlock whirled around and typed in three, zero, zero, seven, one, two. The safe opened.

"How did you know my passcode?" Clyde asked.

"Everything about you just _screams_ it," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade strode over, and Sherlock graciously stepped aside. 

"Really? You're going to let him open it?" John asked.

"No reason not to," Sherlock replied.

"I told you," Clyde said. "There's nothing in there."

The safe opened with a little _pop_. Lestrade let out a low whistle.

"I wouldn't call this _nothing_ ," Lestrade said as he stepped aside to reveal a large-caliber handgun.

Both Sherlock and Clyde were absolutely shocked.

 

"That's not right," Sherlock said once they were out of an earshot of the police. He paced the sidewalk irritably with his coat flapping behind him.

"You mean the gun?" John asked. "Wait, if you weren't expecting a gun, why did we go looking for a safe?"

"I expected the safe to be empty but with gun residue inside," Sherlock replied.

To calm him down, John asked, "What was the code you entered?"

"What? Oh, it was 30/07/12, obviously."

"The date of the _murder_?" John asked. "I thought – "

"He changed it afterward," Sherlock said. "He changes the date on his safe each time he uses it. That's why all ten buttons are well worn, even though that type of safe only requires six digits. I could tell the first number was three, so if it wasn't his birthday..."

"So the last day he used the safe was the day of the murder to put his gun back?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock replied. " _He_ didn't put the gun in there, he's too clever for that. After the murder, he planted those gloves, which means he also planted the weapon somewhere. Somewhere the police would find it - "

John realized where this was going, so he said, "So the framing of the wife would be complete, of course."

"Exactly, but he also needed to be sure that any suspicion that fell on him, if it did, found no fodder. So he came back here after he was done and got rid of all the other evidence."

"Other evidence? That he kept in his safe?" John interrupted. 

"Remember he had to wait to make his move, so he must've had notes about the Fulmer's schedules. Copies of the complaints Mrs. Fulmer filed against him, of course – "

"Why would he have those?"

" _Because_ , John!" Sherlock said loudly. "That's how this started. He liked her, probably obsessed over her. Not only did she reject him, she reported him. This isn't about her husband, this is about _her_. Don't you see?"

John bit his lip. "Sherlock, plenty of people try to cover up murders by pinning it on someone else. How could you possibly know that this is about her and not about her husband?"

"Donovan," Sherlock replied. "You were right there, John! You saw how he reacted to her!"

"She has that effect on a lot of people," John pointed out. "Intimidating."

"So intimidating that a man stares at his shoes and won't move a muscle?" Sherlock inquired. "No, no. That man is terrified of women in authority. Not just Sergeant Donovan. He was fine around you, me, and Lestrade. She was the only one who pushed him. Add that to the fact that this man waited, meticulously, until the couple had a bad row before making his move, and to the fact that Mrs. Fulmer filed all the complains against him, _not_ Mr. Fulmer, and it becomes fairly clear."

' _Damn it_ ,' John thought to himself. 'I hate it when it's that obvious...'

"Okay, so he framed the wife, down to planting the gun somewhere," John said. "And he came back here to destroy all his papers – "

"And photographs of her," Sherlock added.

"Okay, even you can't tell that a photograph was in a safe because of... whatever," John said. "Not apart from normal paper anyway."

Sherlock presented a twisted, one-sided smile. "It's nothing to do with the safe, actually. The living room."

"There weren't photos in the living room."

"Of course not, as I said, he destroyed them all that night, but he clearly used his living room as a darkroom for weeks, going by the smell of it."

John laughed. "Of course, you would know what photographs smell like."

"Don't be foolish," Sherlock cut in. "Not the photos themselves, but the chemicals to develop them. He's far too careful to use digital because digital always leaves a trace and then there's wifi and all that. No, that's not secure enough. He used an analog camera, a truly analog camera, because he processed all the pictures himself."

"Because if he developed them at a pharmacy or camera shop, then someone else would know about his obsession, of course," John filled in. It was always better for him to show Sherlock he understood; at the very least, it prevented the consulting detective from getting so wound up that he shouted.

"Exactly. So, he murders the husband, frames the wife. Comes back here to clear out his safe, and as a creature of habit, he changes the code to the last date accessed. Then he gets rid of his makeshift darkroom, just in case, but he hasn't properly ventilated the room, so the scent lingers. But he's acclimated to it, he does live here after all, so he doesn't know to clean it up."

"Tin foil on the windows?" John asked.

"He probably just likes it."

John laughed. 

"What?" Sherlock asked sharply.

Deciding to change tactics, John asked, "If you're right, and he planted the gun, then what gun did we just find in safe?"

"Oh, it's definitely the murder weapon," Sherlock said. "Definitely. Ballistics will match."

John's confusion prevented him from articulating his next question, so he waited for Sherlock to continue. When he didn't, John spoke up, "Okay, then... how?"

It took almost a whole minute of Sherlock's distant staring before his face lit up. "It's it obvious?"

"No. Unless you're wrong – "

"I'm not wrong. He did plant the gun. Then someone else moved it back to his safe."

"So, he's the one being framed?" John speculated.

"No, he's definitely the murderer," Sherlock dismissed, as if John's question was the stupidest inquiry in the world. "After he framed Mrs. Fulmer, somebody _else_ took the murder weapon and put it back in Burkhart's flat."

"Sherlock, that's..." John struggled for the right word. "Preposterous, even for you."

"Did you see his surprise when we found it? He didn't know it was there. The only possible solution is that someone else put it there!" Sherlock continue to spitball. "Whoever it was knew about the murder and his intent to frame Mrs. Fulmer. Must've figured out the passcode on his safe as well, to get the weapon back in there..."

Calmness passed over Sherlock as he drifted off into pensive thought. John waved to a passing taxi and managed to catch the driver's attention.

"Come on, then," John said. "I'm sure you've got something at the lab to put under your microscope."

Sherlock remained absent as John pushed him into the car. Sooner or later, he would surface, his blue eyes bright and wide with some revelation or another, but for now, it was best to head over to Bart's. He always demanded to go to his lab after waking up from his Mind Palace or Thought Corridor or whatever the hell Sherlock called it these days.


	5. Black Box

Sally Donovan sat at her desk, leafing through files upon files. She didn't like Sherlock Holmes before, but she hated him even more now. The investigation into his activities had thrown suspicion on a number of cases, and since Lestrade was in the hot box, most of the paperwork fell to her. She assumed that, after the man was dead, he wouldn't be able to do any more harm. How wrong she was.

"Sergeant Donovan?" John Watson asked.

"John, bit busy," she said. 

"It's about the Fulmer murder," he replied.

"You know, John, I understand," she said without looking up. "It's hardest on you, all this. But I've got too much to do to – "

"I've an idea that might help," John said. "I'm not you or Lestrade, but I was there and took notes and I can help."

She sat back, giving herself a better vantage point. John seemed okay, and she never did understand why he bothered with the likes of Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he could help, after all.

John pushed on, "The man shot someone in the face. We can't just let him walk."

"Make it brief," she said shortly. 

"Okay, Lestrade and I already figured that the missing suppressor is the piece that'll seal this case - "

Donovan interrupted, "John, Lestrade already went looking through every pipe in that flat."

"That's where you come in," John said happily. "You have any doubts at all that he did it?"

"Sherlock was the one who figured out the combination," Donovan said slowly. "I know he was your friend, John, but he could've planted that gun."

"That's what I thought you'd say," John said happily.

 

Clyde Burkhart sat alone in an interview room, literally twiddling his thumbs. One of the worst problems with being a prisoner was the clock. A prisoner was always on someone else's schedule, and they loved to make you wait. He'd had four months of waiting, and he was done with it.

"Mr. Burkhart?" a woman said as she entered the room. "My name is Sergeant Donovan."

Burkhart tensed up and looked down at the table. "Hello," he said quietly.

"I'm the one handling your case," she continued. "Do you remember me? I believe we met at your flat."

"No, sorry."

"You are claiming that Mr. Sherlock Holmes planted evidence," Donovan continued. "Is that right?"

"Didn't know it'd be you."

"Wasn't supposed to be me in this chat, but... well, I believe you."

"Sure you do."

"Actually, I do," she said. "I've always had problems with Holmes, said it from the beginning that he was trouble. No one listened, and now look at the mess he's made."

"So let me guess, you want to help me?" Clyde squeaked. "Ask me questions to trick me?"

"No, I just wanted to ask you about the complaints filed against you," she said. "By Rachel Fulmer."

"They're lies."

"Can you be more specific?" Donovan asked. 

"She was trying to get back at her husband," Clyde said quickly. "She made a pass at _me_ , and I rejected _her_ , so she wrote me up."

"Get back at her husband?" Donovan asked. "For what?"

"Didn't she say?" he asked. His eyes finally moved away from the table and actually met with Donovan's. "Didn't she _tell_ you what they were on about that night?"

"You mean the night Thomas Fulmer died?"

 

Lestrade joined John in the viewing room. 

"You got Sally to do this?" he asked in a whisper. "How did you manage that?"

"Told her the truth," John replied. 

"You get anywhere?" Lestrade asked. 

"He's talking about the night of the murder, saying he knows what the row was about," John said.

"I've read over my notes, talked to her myself yesterday," Lestrade said. "She said it was basic stuff. Money, time at work, that sort of thing."

"Remember he planned all this," John whispered. "So he does know what it was about. He was waiting for it."

"You think we need to talk to the wife again?" Lestrade asked. 

"No, I think I do," John replied. "You and Donovan need to figure out where the suppressor is."

"Just like that?" Lestrade asked. "You have any insight on where it might be?"

John nodded. "Sherlock was convinced that Clyde planted the gun as part of his frame on Rachel Fulmer. Then someone planted it back in his safe. That's why he was so surprised when we found it."

"Someone tidied up on him? That's what we're going with?" Lestrade asked.

"Regardless of the specifics," John hedged as he realized that Sherlock might've not discussed all of this with the police, "if any of it is true, that means that the suppressor wasn't with the gun when he planted it."

"Why would he plant the gun and not the suppressor?" Lestrade asked.

"No idea. That's what you need to figure out because that and the gloves he wore that night are the only bits of evidence that'll nail him down," John said. 

"You serious?" Lestrade said as John made to leave.

"I'm not good with... this part," John said. "I can observe. I can see some things, but not like him. Not like you, or Donovan, or Anderson. But you know what I can do?"

"Medical stuff?"

"Commiserate," John replied. "Mrs. Rachel Fulmer lied about the argument she and her husband had that night. Maybe because she had something to hide or maybe she was protecting his memory. I understand that. All too recently, as it stands."

"John, you don't have to do this," Lestrade said. "Really, we can – "

"No," John interrupted. "Don't do that. I was a soldier and lost people, had them die in my arms."

"That's not the same as watching them jump from a rooftop," Lestrade replied.

John huffed a half-laugh. "That depends on why they jumped, doesn't it?"

He left before Lestrade could stop him. Lestrade thought this had 'bad idea' written all over it, but he needed to get things moving. If John managed to get Sally Donovan on his side, then why not Rachel Fulmer? He didn't like the idea of John discussing Sherlock's suicide with her, though.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door popped open. Someone said, "Chief Inspector Tolbert wants to see you in his office, now."

 

Lestrade knocked on the Chief Inspector's door, hoping that this particular visit was related to the dozen cases that were checked off the list as sound today. It was unlikely, but possible. 

"Come in."

Tolbert was a good man and excellent at his job. He didn't follow the rules so rigidly as to be foolish, but he didn't break them without reason, either. He also wasn't the kind of man to accept the likes of Sherlock Holmes on his crime scenes, no matter how much help he provided.

Lestrade sat down across next to a young woman that he didn't recognize. 

"Do you know Miss Indigo Berwyn?" Tolbert asked.

"Actually, it's Kendall," she said. "Go by my middle name." She offered her hand to Lestrade.

"Greg Lestrade," he said. "No, sir, we haven't met," he added to Tolbert.

"She's in the forensics IT department," Tolbert continued. "And she has brought some rather interesting news to my attention. Miss Berwyn, would you please?"

Kendall nodded. "I've been looking into Richard Brook's claims that he was paid by Sherlock Holmes to portray a master criminal. Essentially, I was following the money."

"Okay," Lestrade said, ready for the worst.

"And I found an inconstancy across the computational systems here at the Yard and in a few other key places," she said. "At first I thought it was just the normalization of government computers, but no system is that consistent across separate units. So I took one of the offline computers and attached this to it."

She held up a rather ugly-looking cube.

"It's kind of like a black box, except for a computer instead of a plane."

"You get that I only understand about one-third of what you're saying," Lestrade replied.

"Short description: when a computer comes online in the police system, a software update is run. Normally this is just basic stuff, updating security, files, that sort of thing. But any computer that was plugged back into the system – like one that was broken and in for repairs – has a very specific system update."

"This is about a virus?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"No, not a virus. It's a very precise, very careful file modification. My black box tracked the changes. It's a little verbose, which is what I'm guessing the hacker was banking on, that there would be so much data that no one would bother, but – "

She opened a laptop in front of Lestrade and turned the screen towards him. "See these lines?"

"What about them?" Lestrade asked.

"The dates, you see that?"

"You mean they're out of order," Lestrade said. "So what?"

"So, this first file was last updated in late December last year. It was deleted, then another file was saved over top of it. The date last accessed is the sixth of October two thousand five. The file is listed here as created on that same day." Kendall took a moment and then added, "Basically, someone's gone out of their way to backdate this file and cover up that fact."

"Why?" Lestrade asked.

"You tell me," she said. She opened both files.

The first listed the details of MORIARTY, JAMES RUFUS. Several lines referenced case files, connections with organized crime, and surveillance on his movements. The earliest entries in the file dated back to the early nineties. 

The second listed the details of BROOK, RICHARD HANSEL. The only thing in this particular file was that he was arrested for a minor offense on 6/10/2005, the date the file was apparently created. On the whole, it was unremarkable.

The photographs, fingerprints, and DNA were completely identical. 

"Sorry, are you trying to tell me that you have proof that James Moriarty is Richard Brook?" Lestrade asked. 

"Apparently, Miss Berwyn has managed to secure evidence not only to that end, but also evidence that he attempted to create a new identity," Tolbert said stiffly. Lestrade couldn't tell if he was pleased or annoyed. 

"So, that's it then?" Lestrade asked. "Sherlock's name is cleared?"

"Stanley, the other forensics IT guy, is working on the money trail," Kendall replied. "He's got a lot more to go through, but he seems to think he can prove that Mr. Holmes was too broke to hire someone to pretend to be a criminal mastermind."

Lestrade wanted to laugh out loud, but Tolbert didn't seem convinced that this was good news. 

"Sir, why I am here?" Lestrade asked slowly. "I mean, I'm not on this case. I'm too... close to it."

"Your work with this man could've destroyed your career," Tolbert said. "You never cleared his credentials with me or claimed him as a consultant on any of your cases. The man announces he's a fraud before leaping to his death, and you still defend him. I just thought you should that the investigation is proving that he wasn't a fraud." Tolbert added, "Just a liar, apparently."

"Sorry?"

"He said that he created Moriarty," Tolbert pointed out. "Before he jumped. That's in Doctor Watson's statement. At that point, the man we thought was Richard Brook was already dead. So why did he tell John Watson that he was a fraud?"

"I don't know, sir," Lestrade replied, his stomach wrenching. 

"You don't look like you don't know," Tolbert replied.

"It's just... something John said earlier when I saw him today," Lestrade fumbled. "About how he was a soldier and saw people die. And I said, that's not the same as Sherlock's – well, you know. And he said that depends on why he jumped."

"And?"

"That's all he said, sir."

"You're certain?" Tolbert asked. 

"Yes, sir."

"Kendall, please get a report on my desk about that... your work, as soon as possible," Tolbert said. She picked up on the usage of her correct name and took the dismissal immediately. 

Once she was gone, Tolbert leaned across his desk. "Even if this man's name is cleared completely, Lestrade, you're still to blame here. You should've cleared him with me. We could've avoided this whole mess." Lestrade nodded. "You're dismissed for now."


	6. The Frame Job, A Lesson in the Human Factor

Sherlock had been quiet for over twenty-four hours, a feat that John Watson had never witnessed before. It wasn't that he wasn't talking so much as he wasn't making any kind of noise at all.

"Did he lose a bet?" Mrs. Hudson quietly asked John later that evening. 

"No, it's this case," John said. "He thinks a third party is involved. Thwarted the killer's attempt to frame someone else. But we dunno who."

"He's very quiet," she said. "It's very off for him, dear. Are you sure he's not ill?"

"Don't worry about it," John said. "I'll remove the clip from the gun just in case he thinks shooting the wall will help him think."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "I'll be up with tea in a couple."

John smiled and went upstairs to find Sherlock leering out the window.

"I'm guessing you're still trying to identify the third party," John said casually. "I thought I'd take a stab at it."

John opened up his notebook and started on the list of names. "There's John Samuels, the building manager," he began. "Rachel Fulmer herself, of course. Elena Wilhelm-Glass, Thomas Fulmer's PA. Emily Jacobs, neighbor on the left. Fredrick McCone, neighbor on the right. Here's one we should add to the suspect list: the ghost of Thomas Fulmer. I mean, he doesn't want his wife framed, and he wants justice for his death. So he comes back from the grave and makes sure his killer is taken down."

Sherlock did not respond to any of this. He continued to stare out the window, his silhouette like a master's painting in front of the sunset window.

"Gotcher tea, dear," Mrs. Hudson said as she brought in a tray. "Sherlock, will you be joining us?"

He didn't respond.

 

After the tea was cleared, Sherlock finally plunked himself onto the couch and stared at John.

"What?" John prompted.

"He had a partner," Sherlock said.

"Sorry?"

"The killer must've had a partner," Sherlock repeated. 

"Clyde Burkhart?"

"Yes, except there wasn't anything in his flat to suggest a friend, frequent visitor, or partner," Sherlock said. "But it's the only thing that makes sense."

"A partner who got cold feet?" John asked.

"Or who double-crossed him," Sherlock replied. "Why'd you say cold feet?"

"Well, the murder was done with, but the frame went bad," he replied. "Makes me think someone got cold feet before they tied in."

"Huh, interesting," Sherlock said. "Right, we need to speak to Rachel Fulmer. Right now."

 

Rachel Fulmer was cleaning out her husband's office with the help of his PA, Elena Wilhelm-Glass. Sherlock insisted on the visit, though, and Rachel agreed. 

"Mrs. Fulmer?" John asked.

"No, I'm his PA, Elena. Mrs. Fulmer is in the office," she said. "You're John Watson?"

"Yes, Sherlock is – there he is," he replied as Sherlock came around the corner. 

"Go on, then," Elena said as she waved them into the office.

"Mrs. Fulmer?" Sherlock said quickly. "Did Clyde Burkhart, your plumber, have any assistants or partners?"

"What?" she asked.

"Did you see him working with anybody?" Sherlock asked.

"No, not at all," she replied. "That was part of the problem, actually. If he had an assistant or something, maybe someone would've taken my reports seriously."

"You don't think your complaints were handled?" John asked. 

"I filed a report the first day I met him, and the next, and the next, and they told me he was the only plumber they had on hand," she said. "And we needed him to finish the job, so I had to put up with him. If someone else had been around, I'd've been better off."

"Very well, take us through that day," Sherlock said.

"Sorry?" she said.

John started, "We know this is difficult. Would you please walk us through that day? Anything you can tell us can be helpful."

"Well, you'd have to ask Elena about work," she said, "I'm not too keen on that. But he came home later than he said. It was after eight. Said he'd been at the office all day."

"Before he came home, you were there? In the flat?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"Alone?" 

"Yes, of course," she replied. "What're you implying?"

"What are you inferring?" Sherlock asked.

"We're just trying to make a time line," John cut in. "Like I said, anything you can tell us can be helpful. Someone dropped off an old dish, or stopped by to borrow a cup of sugar... anything at all."

"No, I came home around six and waited for my husband," she said. "When he wasn't home by eight, I put in an order for some Chinese food. Figured I shouldn't be hungry just because he was late."

She swallowed hard, bracing herself.

"Then, after he came home?" John prompted. 

"We had a row," she said plainly. "He'd just been moved up, got this office, a new PA, about three months ago. He promised it'd level off, you know? That he'd get the hang of it, but it wasn't getting any better. So I stormed out."

"Why that night?" Sherlock asked shrewdly. 

"What?" she asked.

"You said it'd been going on for three months. But you didn't have a fight until last night," Sherlock said. "There must be some reason."

"It's an anniversary for us," she said. "We met on the thirtieth of September twelve years ago, and even though our proper anniversary - you know, for our wedding - is in February, we always celebrated the day we met, even if it was just a diner."

"Was anyone else at all in your flat that day?" Sherlock asked again. "Electrician? Did you have your windows washed?" 

"No," she said. "Why do you think someone else was in my flat?"

"We're just being thorough," John said. "Sorry. Thank you for your time."

John guided Sherlock out of the office, nearly crashing into Elena in so doing.

"Oh, gosh, sorry," she said. 

"Mrs. Fulmer tells us that you knew Mr. Fulmer's schedule?" John asked. 

"Yeah, kinda my job I guess," she replied.

"Tell us about his day on the thirtieth, would you?" Sherlock asked.

Elena pulled open a computer calendar. "Okay, well, he had meetings throughout the morning. Then he had a lunch meeting, and he spent the afternoon working on projects," she said, fingering the screen. "He had a phone conference at five, and he stayed here late trying to finish up."

"When did he leave?" Sherlock asked.

"Around seven thirty," she said. "He walked me out. He was like that, you know?"

"Like what?" John asked.

"You know, he wouldn't let someone like me walk to my car in the parking garage when it was dark out," she said. "Never willing to leave someone behind."

"Did he seem agitated at all?" John asked. "The day he died. Worried? Anxious? Anything like that?"

"No, not at all," she replied. "He seemed a little tired, maybe. New job and all."

Sherlock sniffed her dramatically. "You're wearing men's deodorant."

"Yes," Elena replied. "Old Spice Swagger, specifically."

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because women's deodorants smell like flowers or powder," Elena replied simply. "Why anyone would want their armpit to stink of a forest or a makeup drawer is beyond me."

Sherlock sized Elena up, trying to detect a lie, but he couldn't find one. "You've been very helpful," Sherlock said as he stalked off. 

"Thanks, Elena," John said as he ducked after the surly detective.

 

"Sherlock, you know, this isn't your strong suit," John said. "The human factor, I mean."

"Don't be foolish," Sherlock mumbled. "I can unwind the human factor without so much as blinking."

"Okay, then, who is our third party?"

"I don't know," Sherlock repeated.

"Did you ever think that, maybe, it was a guilty conscience?" John offered. "A man, obsessed with a tenant, plots a murder, but after all is said and done, he didn't anticipate feeling so guilty, so – "

"He puts the gun back in his own safe?" Sherlock completed. "If he was feeling that guilty, John, he could've just turned himself in. No, there was a third party, an actual third person."

"You asked Elena about her deodorant," John pointed out.

"Stupid, really," Sherlock replied. "The husband used an orange tang aerosol, nothing like Old Spice."

"You've conclusively ruled out the wife?" John asked. 

"She took a cab to her mother's that night, which was across London," Sherlock said. "And Lestrade took her in the next morning, so barring some kind of teleportation, yes, John, we can rule her out."

"I thought you _liked_ puzzles, but now you're just snippy."


	7. Revelations

John knocked on the door labeled FULMER. Rachel relocated to a new building a few blocks from her old residence after her husband's funeral, and though the neighborhood was roughly the same, the general feeling of the place was stuffy and defeated.

Or maybe that was just John projecting.

"Hello? Who's there?" Rachel asked from behind the door.

"Mrs. Fulmer? My name is John Watson. We met briefly a few months ago. Can I come in?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am."

Rachel opened the door and waved John inside.

"Apologies," she said. "Wasn't expecting anyone to come by."

"I understand," John said.

"Make yourself at home," she said as she waved him over to the couch.

He sat politely, and she joined him by sitting in the opposite chair. She was clearly nervous, and though John hadn't been in her last flat, he could tell this one was foreign to her. The way she sat, the way she moved, everything about her indicated that this place just wasn't home. Sherlock had rubbed off on him, just a little.

"Do you know why I'm here?" John asked.

"I suppose it's because of the police investigation," she said. "Someone told me it might be re-opened. Even though they found the gun in... _that_ man's flat."

"I want you to know, Mrs. Fulmer, that there's not a doubt in my mind that that man is the killer," John said. "That's why I'm here. I'm hoping you can help me find something."

"Find something?" she repeated. "Like what? I've spoken to the police several times, to you and your...colleague once, too. That's why this whole thing is falling apart, you know. Because of _him_."

John felt like a horse just kicked him in the stomach, but he understood. 

"There is some evidence missing, Mrs. Fulmer," John said. "And the police didn't bother with it before, since the gun was locked in his safe. Will you help me?"

"How can I help you?"

"My notes said that you ordered food in that night, just before your husband arrived home," John said. "Did it arrive before you left?"

"What?"

"Did someone drop off your order before you left?"

"Uh, no. Must've come after I left," she said.

"Do you remember which restaurant?" John asked.

"What?"

"Which restaurant you ordered from?"

"The same one we always did. It's just down the block, called Dragon's Bowl. How is this helpful?" she asked.

"The delivery person could be a witness that the police missed," John lied. He'd prepared for such a question and decided against telling her that her peckishness contributed to her husband's murder. "And I have one more question for you, and I hope you'll forgive me for it."

"What's that?" she asked.

"You told us that the argument you had with your husband was about missing an anniversary dinner that night," John said. "And the late hours he'd been keeping."

"That's right."

"What was the argument really about?" John asked.

"I've told you."

"No," John said. "You weren't technically lying. The missed dinner and the late nights were part of the fight, but that wasn't what it was about."

"Are you calling me a liar?" 

"Your husband's PA, Elena, told me that he walked her to her car that night because the parking garage was dark and empty. She said he was calm and composed, maybe a little tired. That hardly sounds like a man late to an important dinner, Mrs. Fulmer."

Rachel sucked down a breath, hard, but she didn't say anything.

"You're right, you know," John said. "We're here because of Sherlock Holmes. Because the media is dragging his name through the mud, and all the cases he assisted on are coming under question. But he's also the reason the police cleared your name, Mrs. Fulmer. He was able to deduce that the evidence incriminating you was planted."

Rachel remained quiet. 

"I know what it's like," he continued. "I was there, you know, when he... jumped. I was the last person he spoke to. We were on the phone, and he told me that he was a fake. He apologized to me. At the time, I assumed he was under some kind of duress, but the police keep telling me, there's nothing to indicate such a thing. No reason to think he didn't jump of his own free will. No reason not to accept his confession at face value."

"Clearly you don't," she said.

"I know it's not true," he said. "I might not know why he jumped, but I know why he told me he was a fake."

"If not because it's the truth, then what?" she asked. 

"I'm a doctor. I was a soldier. I could go back into practice, you know. My name might be sullied as a detective, but that never was my line of work, not really. Sherlock knew he was going to die, and his last act was to try and free me. Let me recover my name and reputation and go on living," John said. "He knew that if he told me he was being forced to jump or that he was jumping because of his lost reputation, I'd never move on."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd spend every day I had left proving that Sherlock Holmes was not a fake," John replied. "The duress he was under when he gave me his fake confession wasn't a bullet or a bomb, but our friendship."

Rachel hadn't met his eye for several minutes, and after he finished, she kept looking down at her hands.

"I thought he was cheating on me," she said very quietly. "He always came home smelling of perfume, not mine mind you, and whenever I asked him about work, he just said he was in meetings."

"Were there phone calls?" John asked. "Letters? Emails? Anything like that?"

She nodded. "He insisted the emails were spam of some kind, but that and the perfume... what else was I supposed to think?"

"So you brought up the affair that night? That's what you were really fighting about?"

She nodded slowly. "And he told me I was being crazy, seeing things, you know? And when I asked him about the perfume - "

"Who did he have the affair with?" John asked.

Rachel looked miserable. "No one," she replied.

"No one?"

She shook her head. "I went to my mother's that night, and before the police came round in the morning, I got a call from my office. A young lady had come by to speak with me, saying it was urgent. I had already called in sick for the day; I wasn't in any shape to work."

"Who was it?" John asked.

"Elena," Rachel replied. "My husband's PA. She'd come around to talk to me in person, since no one at home was answering."

"Sorry, your husband's PA went to your office?" John asked.

Rachel nodded. "I accused Thomas of sleeping with her, so, I guess he must've, called her or something before – before he was killed. She said she wanted to have a proper chat, face to face, you know?"

"Did you ever get to speak with her?" John asked. 

"Yes, after I was released," Rachel replied. "She explained that she used the perfume as an air freshener... never occurred to her that it'd be considered... well, you know. And she showed me his meetings, even the security camera footage from his office. He hadn't been lying, and Thomas never cheated on me."

"When was the last time you spoke with Elena?" John asked.

"I guess that day we cleaned out the office," she said. 

"Do you have her contact information?" John asked casually. 

Rachel fumbled about for a phone before grabbing a scrap of paper and scribbling down the number. "This is her mobile, I think. I haven't spoken to her in months, though."

"Thank you," John said. "Just one more question, if you will."

"Right."

"Do you have some kind of locked box at work? Locked filing cabinet, maybe?" John asked. "Something that's specifically yours."

"I, uh, yes, I have a locker at work," she said. 

"Thank you, so much," John said. "For your time."

 

Indigo Kendall Berwyn had never been fond of her name, but what was she to do about it? Even if she changed it, it'd still be her name. She used to go by "Indie" but it never really fit her, so she started going by her middle name in her school years. That's why she believed that every name had an important story, its own meaning, that said something about the person who it belonged to.

Stanley William James III didn't agree with her. She guessed it was something to do with the fact that his father and grandfather shared his name, and in his mind, they'd somehow used up all the meaning instead of adding to it.

"Better to be named Stanley than Indigo," she said playfully. 

"Easy for you to say!" Stanley replied.

She handed him some more cords and wires. "I'm gonna walk you through the black box set up, okay?" she asked.

"You've already done that," he said.

"Right, but you showed me the forensics behind banking and money wiring and all that," she pointed. 

"But you're the one who figured the whole sneaky bank file swap out thing," he said. "Seriously, it's like... you're the computer _whisperer_."

"Maybe I am," she replied with a twisted smile. "'Sides, eventually I want to go on vacation. That'll never happen if I'm the only one who can use this thing."

Stanley smiled and took the wires. "Okay, then, guarantee my job security and ruin my life," he said lightheartedly.

"Uh, right," Lestrade said, finally approaching the two sickeningly affectionate IT specialists. "Tolbert told me you had your report done," he said to Stanley. "Any chance I could..."

"Cheers," Stanley said handing off the file. "But I sent that up ages ago to Tolbert."

"This one's for me," Lestrade replied. "Thanks."

Lestrade stopped in the hallway, not willing to go any farther without knowing. He flipped the file open, rolling his eyes at all the technical jargon and pages of numbers and highlighted symbols. Finally, he found the summary page. He read, "Conclusion: No evidence that Sherlock Holmes or any of his affiliates contributed funds or financial support by means of currency or goods to any of the listed aliases of RICHARD HANSEL BROOK."

He exhaled. There was additional information about falsified bank accounts, falsified wire transfers, and the like, but the volume of the file made Lestrade's head hurt. The short version was good enough for him.

His mobile rang.

"Lestrade."

"Hi, it's John," John Watson said from the other line. "Could you check something for me?"

"Sure what's that?"

"The last phone calls made from Thomas Fulmer's mobile and home phones. Oh, and the times they were made."

"I'll text'em to you, okay?"

"Thank you, Lestrade."

Lestrade hesitated for a moment. He wondered if he should tell John about the evidence the forensics people were digging up in Sherlock's case, but he decided against it. "Right, talk to you soon."

 

John sat down in his favorite chair to glance over his notes again. His eyes wandered over to the mantle where Sherlock's skull usually rested. It was one of the first objects John boxed up; he very nearly buried the thing with him. But now that Sherlock wasn't here, and Mrs. Hudson was out, John understood the appeal of such a lifeless object. 

John was halfway to unpacking the skull before he realized what he was doing. "I'm losing my mind," he whispered to himself. He resisted the temptation and returned to his notes.

Lestrade's text message came through: 'HOME Last call 7:59pm Dragon's Bowl Restaurant & MOBILE Last call 6:43pm Home, nothing sent or received after.'

John stared at the message for a long time. If Lestrade was right, then Thomas Fulmer didn't contact Elena about the fight with his wife. Technically, it was possible that he e-mailed her... John shrugged. He had to speak with her anyway, so he decided this might play out to his advantage. He dialed her up and waited.

"Hello?" a woman answered. Her voice was unclear over the crackling.

"Hello, it's Elena isn't?" John asked.

"Yes, it is, can you give me a moment to get somewhere with better reception?" she asked. At least, that's what John thought she asked, given the state of her phone.

"Sure."

Less than a minute passed. "Sorry about that. Elena speaking."

"Dunno if you remember me – "

"John Watson?" she said. 

"Yes, how did you know?" he asked.

"I thought you might call," she said.

"Can we meet?" John asked.

"No," she replied. "Ask me anything, Dr. Watson, but I will not meet you in person."

"Why?" 

"Is that really what you want to know?" she asked.

"I want to know why you went to Rachel Fulmer's office the morning after her husband was murdered," John said. 

"I heard about the murder the night prior," she said. "On the news. I went to speak with her in person because she thought I had an affair with her husband."

John had expected a lie about getting a call or e-mail. He wasn't sure what she said made any kind of sense, though. "Okay, you realize that's not exactly clear, don't you?"

"I was paid to make her believe that her husband was cheating on her with me," she replied simply. 

"You helped kill Thomas Fulmer?" John said loudly into his phone.

"No."

"But you just said – "

"I was asked to bait the wife," she interrupted. "Make her think her husband was unfaithful, provoke a fight between them. So I spritzed him with perfume and added meetings to his schedule and sent suggestive emails. Made a few late night calls. That's it."

"Why would anyone ask you to do that?" John asked in a dangerous whisper. 

"I didn't ask," she replied. "Once I saw the news, I did what I could."

"What does that mean?"

"The man's not wrong, you know," she said. "That gun was planted, or more correctly, put back, in his safe. But it wasn't by Sherlock Holmes."

"You – you moved the gun?"

"I take it you already knew that," she said. 

"Where's the suppressor?" John asked.

"What suppressor?"

"The suppressor! The one the killer used to muffle the shot!" John replied. 

"Burkhart planted the gun in Rachel Fulmer's locker at work. There was no suppressor there with it, or I'd've moved that as well."

John was ready to scream. "How do I know that you didn't do all this? Killed Mr. Fulmer? Framed Clyde Burkhart?"

"You met me, John. So did Sherlock Holmes. Did either of you suspect me of killing anyone?"

"Neither of us suspected you of... baiting Mrs. Fulmer!" John said. 

"Actually, he did," she pointed out. "He asked me about the men's deodorant." After a brief pause, she said, "I thought I could prevent all this from happening. That I could stop anyone from dying."

John stiffened. "What does that mean?"

"It means, the person who paid me wasn't Clyde Burkhart, just someone who agreed to help him."

"You let a man die, for money?"

"No," she replied. "I was trying to get close to someone, get him to trust me. To tell me the whole plan. Clearly, he didn't."

"Who were you trying to get close to?" John asked.

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"Of course it matters!" John barked. "Tell me now, or – "

"You know who it is, John," she replied. "James Moriarty."

"No, no, you're making this up – "

"If I was, wouldn't I think that Moriarty was played by an actor like it says on the tele? But I know better, John," she said. "I was trying to get close to Moriarty, to get something on him, so he assigned me this case, this job, as a test. Needless to say, I failed."

"Yeah, well, it took Sherlock Holmes to bring James Moriarty down," John said quietly. "I doubt the likes of you could do anything about it."

Her voice was very quiet when she replied, "I suppose, in that way, Sherlock Holmes died because of me. I hope what I have done is some solace for you, Doctor John Watson. I'm not so much a crime fighter as I am an engineer."

The line disconnected. 

John tried to call back over and over again, because that would _not_ be the last thing she said to him. But the number wouldn't go through.

The conversation had stolen his attention so much that he hadn't noticed that it started to pour. He bundled up and ran downstairs for a taxi. Lestrade should be able to find this woman.

 

Stanley paged through the data from the black box. It was like scanning through the world's most detailed log files, but twenty times more complex. Kendall clearly spent hours pouring over this data to find evidence of tampering. As if summoned by thought, he found the lines of code she'd mentioned. That was good. That meant he could verify her findings by reproducing them himself. Solid evidence through and through. 

Damn, he needed a pint.

Kendall returned to the lab, "Sorry I had to step out, we get terrible reception down here."

"Don't I know it?" he said. "Look what I've found."

"Oh, excellent. That means I can finally go home and sleep," she said.

"You don't wanna go out for a drink?" Stanley asked.

She grabbed her stuff and pulled out her big umbrella. "I do, but not after being awake for three days straight. Tomorrow night, I promise."

 

John's taxi pulled up to the Yard. The rain continued to pour down as he paid his fee. He didn't bring a proper umbrella with him, so he wound up turning his coat up to the wind and hoping it wouldn't be too bad. 

"Taxi!" a young woman yelled. She had a sturdy black umbrella tipped with a maroon rim, and she had just come out of the Yard as far as John could tell.

"You can have mine!" John yelled over the winds, waving to her. "Come on, then!"

"Thanks for holding it for me," she said with a smile. "Here, take my umbrella," she continued as she sat in the back seat.

"No, I couldn't," he replied.

She took his hand and placed the umbrella in it. Then she shut the door with an, "I insist, Doctor Watson!"

The taxi took off immediately. John didn't hear where she asked to go because he had been too distracted by the fact this woman knew his name... and he couldn't be completely certain, given the rain, but he swore he smelled Old Spice Swagger coming off her. His brain added up these facts, and he tried to get a proper look at her face now that he had her umbrella, but she was already gone. 

"Damn it!" he yelled. 

For all he could tell, Elena Wilhelm-Glass just disappeared right from under his nose.


	8. The Frame Job, A Ship in a Bottle

Sherlock paced the room irritably, muttering on about how "he needed help" and "he's clever, but not that clever."

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "Could you stop that? Please?"

Sherlock continued, lowering his voice.

John finally stood directly in Sherlock's path, causing a ridiculous collision of bodies and limbs. As they fell to the floor, they both tried to catch themselves, but instead they wound up struggling against each other, flailing like schoolboys in a tussle.

"What the hell are you doing?" John barked.

"Me? What the hell are _you_ doing?"

They broke apart, John plopping onto his chair and Sherlock straightening his clothes out.

"What are you on about now?" John demanded.

"Clyde Burkhart needed to have an accomplice or a partner, but everything about him says he can't sustain a relationship," he mused.

"People said the same thing about you," John pointed out. "Yet here we are."

"Clyde Burkhart and I are hardly the same," Sherlock said.

"You're right. Burkhart hides from people. You repel them."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "So who John? Who is the third wheel?"

John laughed. "You know when people ask, 'How did you get the ship in the bottle?' Because the neck of the bottle is too small to fit the ship through, obviously. But the answer is really simple. 'The ship wasn't put in the bottle. It was built inside, that's how.'"

"Meticulous," Sherlock said, perking up. 

"I imagine it would be," John said. 

An incoming text blinked on John's phone. "Do you have a minute, Dr. Watson? MH."

"Right, I'm going out," John announced. Whatever Mycroft had to say, at the very least it would prevent John from stabbing Sherlock with a pen.

 

Sherlock didn't notice when John left. His brain folded over the idea of a ship in a bottle. It was brilliant. Whatever the reason, John's intellect held these nuggets of wisdom wrapped inside of normalcy, and he dolled them out at the oddest little moments. 

This entire time, Sherlock had considered that the plot was to frame Mrs. Fulmer and that the third wheel thwarted it. But what if the real plot was to lure Clyde Burkhart into committing murder and then send him away for his crimes? Then Clyde would be the third wheel, and Sherlock needed to find the second wheel, the mastermind of the murder.

Unfortunately, whenever he thought of criminal masterminds, he always came back to Moriarty. Sherlock hesitated. The other cases Moriarty worked were simpler and more elegant. Killing a boy by poisoning his lotion, making it look like an accident in a swimming pool. _That_ was Moriarty's style. 

What was he thinking? _Of course_ , an elaborate frame job would come under Moriarty's belt! So, if he was the man behind this scheme, then how would he do it?

Sherlock shot up from the couch, grabbing his scarf and furiously putting it on. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed a large paper bag and folded the top down, then stapled a piece of paper to the front. 

On his way out, Mrs. Hudson spotted him. "You're going out as well?" she asked.

"It's just you and John tonight!" Sherlock said by way of goodbye.

He managed to snag a taxi without issue. The ride felt like the longest in all of known history, which just couldn't be right. But he needed to test his theory, and he could only do that in person.

When the cabbie finally pulled over, Sherlock paid him and waved him off. He examined the building the Fulmers lived in. The security was such that not just anyone could walk in, so Sherlock walked in with his bag proffered.

"Hey, where're you going?" a man said as soon as Sherlock entered the front door. 

"Delivery," Sherlock said, holding up his bag.

Apparently the long black coat didn't register to desk attendant, who waved him upstairs without a second glance. First assumption confirmed. Anyone could enter anywhere if they chose to do so at the right time. No doubt the residents of this building ordered in so much it that screening each delivery person would be incredibly tedious.

The second assumption needed to be tested. He went up the stairwell, avoiding the elevator, to the third floor where the Fulmers lived. With the bag out in front of him, none of the people in the hallway bothered to really look at him. He made it to the end of the hall and back. Second assumption confirmed. To attain invisibility, one simply must bear food before face. 

The Fulmers lived nearest the far stairwell, so Sherlock turned into it. There wasn't a nook or cranny in sight, so he went down the stairs until he reached ground level. It was technically beneath the first floor, and it opened directly into an alley. Assumption number three confirmed: an easy escape route existed.

A killer clever enough to plant evident as efficiently as Clyde Burkhart was also clever enough to wash away or to remake evidence into something else. Normally Sherlock read everything in people's faces, their apparel, their mannerisms, and even their scents. Activity always left indelible marks upon the people who participated in it, like writing on the skin in ink. Clyde Burkhart, on the other hand, wrote on himself with pencil. It rubbed away with time. 

If Sherlock couldn't read the man, then he'd read his plan. That was nearly as good. So if he was Clyde Burkhart, then he'd've come down to this place with his bag that looked like food delivery, but was actually filled with bloody clothes, a suppressor, and a gun. He went down this alleyway and planted Rachel Fulmer's gloves in the trash, where they would be uncovered in a matter of hours by the police. 

That meant, though, that he couldn't put the real evidence nearby. No drains, no loose bricks, nothing. The alleyway was free of hiding spots. Sherlock imagined the routes around the building, tiny rivers of passage for anyone coming and going. Unlike inside the building, however, the roads were a risk. Passersby, homeless people, and patrolmen could take notice of your features, and with a face like Clyde's, it wasn't easy to hide. He'd need to pick a nearby place.

 _Of course_! How could he have missed it before! Sometimes he worried the rush of new cases sucked up his intellect; after all, this was obvious enough that surely even John noticed it. 

Sherlock ducked into every nearby restaurant, which included an Italian place, a pub, a place with odd French cuisine, and a Chinese place called the Dragon's Bowl. 

"We're taking surveys, you understand?" he said to the managers. "Can I have the names of all the plumbers and electricians that you use?" Oddly, he met no resistance in his inquiries. Clyde Burkhart appeared on only one list: Daggers, the pub, which was literally around the corner from the alleyway. 

Sherlock went back to the alley and followed Burkhart's movements. The pub's side door was only a few steps from his position. Walk down an unmanned stairwell with some packaged food, step into an alleyway, and then take the turn into a crowded pub. 

John was _right_ about the ship in the bottle. Sherlock had assumed the mastermind was needed to execute the crime, but the truth was, the crime was ready to happen, all it needed was a homicidal maniac to see that he could get away with it.

Sherlock ducked into the pub, his bag still in hand, to mark out his options.

"We don't allow outside food here," the bartender barked. 

'Apparently there was a catch to this,' Sherlock thought. 

"Sorry," he said casually as he stepped back outside.

That didn't mean that Burkhart didn't use this place. All and all, this case was thoroughly disappointing. The killer came here, used his job for access to the basement water heater or odd place to stash the evidence, then proceeded to plant the gun. The only questions of interest were how did the killer know about the row? And, of course, who returned the killer's gun?

The two must be connected. Sherlock had already looked for surveillance in the flat and came up empty, but a plumber would've had the means to plant a camera or wire with the gun. That was obvious. But causing the fight himself would be too dangerous, draw too much attention to himself. 

He was just spinning his wheels. There was an easier way to find the third party; after all, Clyde Burkhart wasn't dead.

 

Sherlock had to wait till the next morning to meet with Burkhart, and the officer on duty, Charles Riley, only allowed Sherlock entry because of some devastatingly shameless flirting on his part. John might consider him oblivious to such things, but pupil dilation and minute fluctuations in skin color revealed more than enough. Admittedly, he took a few leaves from John's book, layering observations (such as "you workout at quite a lot") with pleasantries that were essentially meaningless (such as "it makes you seem very tone"). Still, it was effective, and Sherlock managed to gain a few minutes with Burkhart alone without too many questions.

"You're the man who guessed my safe's combination," Clyde said when he sat down.

"I didn't guess, I saw."

His entire demeanor was calm, as if prison was a temporary problem that would go away. Clyde sat back and relaxed. He didn't care about a single thing; nothing held him down. Some people would conclude that he lacked a moral conscious, but Sherlock saw something very different: Plan B. 

"I found it, you know," Sherlock said.

"Found what?"

"Where you stored your bloody clothing and such while you planted the evidence against Rachel Fulmer."

"Is that so? You came here to celebrate?"

"No, I came here to ask you what went wrong."

"Wrong?"

"We were both there," Sherlock said in barely a whisper. "I saw your surprise. Someone put that gun back in your safe after you left it elsewhere."

Clyde bit hard into his lip, and his pupils became tiny pinpricks. "Is that so?"

"You tell me," Sherlock countered. "I imagine you would want revenge of sorts. I would, certainly, if a partner double-crossed me."

"Partner?" Clyde repeated the word as if it were foreign. "This is a joke, isn't it?" His relaxed exterior became rigid and harsh. "Guards! I want to go back to my cell!"

Sherlock met Clyde's eyes as he stood up, defiant and angry. This _was_ Moriarty, somehow. This was Moriarty waving a truth in his face and then wiping it up before he could get to it.

 

"Sherlock?" John said when he answered his mobile. "Are you there?"

"Yes, John, it's me," Sherlock replied. "You've been calling incessantly."

"You texted me over an hour ago to come to some ridiculous antique fair!" John said. "Where the hell are you?"

"Oh, right, the Burnsider case," Sherlock said idly. "I'm still at the prison."

"What?"

"Don't fret, I'll be there soon. While you're waiting, you should take note of all items marked with a purple tag."

"Sherlock, what – "

"These smuggling operations are flawless, John, and it all comes down to those purple tags!"

Sherlock waved down a taxi and continued to explain to John, as quickly as possible, how Aaron Burnsider used his fraternal - and nearly identical - twin Erin Burnsider to obfuscate the illicit trafficking business they ran under the title "Antiques." Unlike a gang with operatives, essentially loose ends that could split and spill the truth at any minute, this brother-sister business kept everyone that worked for them in the dark. The police never caught them because they ran their operation like a magic trick: while everyone was looking in one direction, the product changed hands. Of course, they made a mistake with the purple tags; it was all so obvious, Sherlock didn't understand how the last bust didn't take these people out.

He became so caught up with recovering the Burnsider artifacts that Burkhart being double-crossed by Moriarty became a distant fragment of a thought. Clever smugglers that were still at large took precedence over a killer who was already behind bars. For now. He made a quick note on a napkin from the Dragon's Bowl for memory's sake and tucked it back into a pocket.


	9. Unwilling Allies

John tossed and turned in bed. When he worked on a case with Sherlock, there was so much _activity_. They chased down taxis and tracked down cyphers. They raced from one case to another, and when there weren't any cases, Sherlock ran ridiculous experiments and shot at the walls.

John was a smart man; more than that, he had an intelligent disposition. But he wasn't clever like Sherlock was. His first instinct was to stand his ground, not climb to the tallest building and leap from roof to roof. This whole case, John felt as if he'd been so very near the answers, like they were laid out for him, but they kept being scrubbed out before he read them. 

After his encounter with Elena at the Yard, he tried to get Lestrade to help him, but the mobile phone couldn't be tracked. And Elena Wilhelm-Glass, as per her job's paperwork, was a forty-six year old woman who moved to Featherstone from London four years ago. Clearly the woman in question stole her identity; without her mobile connected, John had no way to find her.

So he dragged himself back to 221 B Baker Street, confused and annoyed and missing Sherlock more than he believed possible. He inspected the umbrella she handed off to him and found a note jammed under one of the metal arms.

"Dear JW: My apologies for the mess. I suggest taking a bird's eye view. It can be very enlightening. – Engineer"

She'd named herself "Engineer," because apparently it wasn't enough to pull a disappearing act. But as much as John knew he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, his suspicions didn't fall on her. His anger and impatience did, but something inside of himself believed that she had told him the truth. Most of it, anyway. There still remained the question of why she bothered with any of this... 

So John Watson fell asleep, very late at night, dreaming of women moving guns and men without faces. He woke up in the very early morning to the sounds of movement. Mrs. Hudson was up far too early for her own good. Giving up on sleep, John went downstairs for some breakfast. 

The skull was out on the mantle. 

No, that's not right. He almost took it out the other day, but he stopped himself. He was sure of that. 

"Mrs. Hudson?" John prompted. There was no response. 

Nothing else looked disturbed. If Mrs. Hudson had been up, she would have stowed the skull, not left it out. Hope sparked in John's chest – 

_No_ , he thought to himself. _Sherlock is dead. You saw him die._

With that sobering thought, he began to tidy up. His hands found the napkin that Sherlock had written DELIVERY on. John flipped it over to tuck it into his old journal, and something else caught his eye: DAGGERS, PLUMBING. It was also in Sherlock's handwriting. John couldn't imagine how he missed it before.

Daggers. That sounded familiar to him. 

"Damn it, Sherlock," John whispered to himself. "Would it have killed you, just for once, to write something down?"

"You all right dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. 

"Uh, yes, thank you," he muttered back.

"Sherlock used to talk to that skull, too, you know," she said. 

"Oh, I'm not – " John began. 

"It's okay, dear," she said. "I miss him, too." She gave him a quick hug before placing the skull back into its box. "But let's let the skull lie, shall we?"

John smiled. "Yes, of course."

 

Molly Hooper's heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she saw the article on page ten: DE-FRAUDED, SHERLOCK HOLMES CLEARED. The article was thorough, and it covered the investigation into allegations made by Richard Book (deceased) against Sherlock Holmes. It even went on to praise some of his casework.

Of course, that didn't make the front page. It wasn't a splashy story with lots of catchwords and scandal. A tiny part of Molly hoped, however, that Sherlock would return to London, to Bart's, to Molly.

"Ah, Miss Hooper," Mycroft Holmes said as he entered the room. 

"Hello," she replied. 

"I see you've read the news."

"It's not news to me," Molly replied. 

"Yes, you are one of the few that believed in my brother," Mycroft said.

"I worked with him," she said. "Or saw him work, if you like. It's easy to believe something when you've seen so much of it."

"Still, it can't have been easy," he continued. 

"Nothing worthwhile is."

"Miss Hooper, you performed my brother's autopsy."

"I did, yes."

"Which means you not only saw his lifeless body, but you cut a Y-incision into it to examine his internal organs at length."

"Yes, sir, I did."

"What would you say, then, to reports that a man matching his description has been seen near 221 B Baker Street?"

"I would say that I miss him, too," Molly lied seamlessly. She never was a good liar, but she had practiced it endlessly in the mirror.

"Ah," Mycroft said. "Well Miss Hooper, I stopped by because I can imagine that any reports of my brother, or someone who looked like him, might cause you some distress, perhaps even bring you under unwanted scrutiny. I know that Sherlock was never willing to do it, but should you feel uneasy or unsafe, please call me."

Mycroft held out a small card with his contact information, and Molly tentatively took it. 

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I will."

He waited a moment before his next question. "I know it's not really my place to ask, but... were you and my brother...?"

"Yes," Molly said. Then she realized what Mycroft was asking her, and she corrected herself. "Oh, no, I mean. Yes, we worked together. But, that's all. He kissed me on the cheek one time."

"Ah," Mycroft said softly. "I never liked the idea of him being alone."

"He had John," Molly said. "And Mrs. Hudson. And me. And Lestrade. He wasn't alone. Not really."

"Of course. Thank you, as ever, for your time."

 

John walked into the pub named Daggers. There were only two people on staff in the morning.

"We're closed," a woman said shortly.

"Actually, I was hoping to check your plumbing," John said.

"What?" the barkeeper asked.

"I, uh, would like to see your pluming," John repeated.

"What for?" 

John should've thought up a lie in the cab ride over, but he didn't. So he went with the truth. "You remember the murder that happened here? Almost five months ago?"

"Yeah, sure. Thomas Fulmer, good man."

"I believe there may be evidence related to his murder hidden here."

"In our plumbing?" the barkeep asked.

"Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous," John said. "And chances are, there's nothing here anymore. But the man who stands accused of the murder – "

"Was our plumber, right," the barkeep said. "You think he might've stored something here?"

"I'd like to check, if that's okay."

"You're police?"

"No, not really."

"Okay, well, I guess it won't hurt for you to look," the barkeep replied. "No funny business."

"None at all," John confirmed. 

They walked to the back and down a creepy flight of stairs to an old workman's closet opposite a very old basement, the kind horror films use for inspiration. 

"We had another bloke come in and fix up the plumbing, after Clyde was arrested," the barkeep continued. "We had to order some parts for the refurbishing. What I mean is, people've been through here, so I'm not sure what you're looking for."

"Honestly, neither am I," John said. 

He took a flashlight and ran it over the workman's closet. Of course, if one were to hide anything related to murder, it wouldn't be in the corners of the clean, well-lit closet. No, it would be in some ungodly corner of the damp, eerie sublevel. The place was even rank with limestone...

Wait, that couldn't be right. John followed his nose to a pillar and looked up. The limestone powder was trickling out of a duffel bag.

He could, of course, rifle through the suspicious bag and identify its exact contents. There was always the possibility that the contents of the bag were wrapped in limestone because of preference. Of course, the most obvious reason was to cover up the scent of something rotting. 

"You find anything?" the barkeep called.

"I need to make a call."

 

Tolbert assigned Lestrade the task of releasing Clyde Burkhart. It was his screw up that gave the damn lawyers the ability to question the arrest to begin with, smoking gun and all.

Clyde Burkhart smiled like it was his wedding day. As he walked out of custody, he said, "Say thank you to Sergeant Donovan for me."

"I will," Lestrade said. "You rat."

He watched as a murderer walked free. Lestrade cursed Sherlock's name, even though he knew that Sherlock alone was not to blame. He and John just couldn't do what Sherlock did. 

All he could hope for was to prevent it from happening again, which meant he couldn't ignore the mountain of paper work on his desk.

 

Donovan didn't do stupid things. She followed procedure. She was an excellent officer. Yet here she was, sitting next to John Watson in a surveillance car. 

Thanks to the cooperation of the pub owner, they were able to set up on the place very quickly. Tolbert seemed very keen on the idea, but Donovan had her doubts. She never liked waiting.

Luckily, it was just a few hours after Clyde Burkhart's release from prison that he stopped by Daggers. He sat with a pint for about an hour, then ducked into the basement. 

"Shouldn't we be, you know, moving in?" John Watson asked.

"First off, _we_ won't be doing anything. You'll be staying in the car," Donovan said. "And we can't arrest someone for going into a basement."

"Right, of course."

But it was only a matter of time before Clyde tried to leave through the side door, carrying a rather distinctive duffel bag. Anderson palmed through the contents for a quick overview and reported that the limestone-powdered bag contained another bag that had bloody garments, a facemask, and an odd contraption that Anderson summed up as a "useless, overly-wide pipe."

"That's where he hid it," John said. 

"What're you doing here?" Anderson asked.

"Not touching anything," John replied. 

"What do you mean, hid it?"

"He hid the gun and suppressor in the apartment before the murder. In this pipe. Afterwards, all he had to do was plop it in his bag."

Donovan waved him away from Anderson as she called a taxi for John. "You know, I didn't think you'd be calling me," Donovan said. "You normally call Lestrade."

"Yes, I do," John said. "But with everything going on, it was best to keep him out of this. This way you have your man red-handed. I doubt he could concoct a story wild enough to explain how he found all the evidence it takes to incriminate himself..."

"Don't worry about it," Donovan said. "You look sad."

The taxi pulled up. 

"I am sad."

"We just got the guy because of you," she said. "That's not nothing."

"I know you didn't like Sherlock," John said. "But he was my best friend. I figured this out with scraps of notes and... well, I'm not him."

"I'd say that's a good thing," Donovan replied. 

"Goodbye Sergeant," John said as he plopped into his taxi. 

The car pulled away, and he sank into his seat. He wanted to like Donovan, he really did, but she never let up. The man was _dead_ , and she couldn't say a nice thing about him.

John realized that he hadn't given the cabbie the address. "Where are we going?" he asked.


	10. Boxed Bet

The cabbie didn't speak for the duration of the drive, and John felt a little unnerved, to the point of taking his mobile out and dialing in case he needed to call for help. But sure enough, the taxi pulled up to 221 B Baker Street. Perhaps Sargent Donovan had mentioned the address.

John fumbled with his wallet for a minute or so before the cabbie said, "No charge, hey." 

John stepped out to get a better look at the man. His voice sounded pinched and high, like he was putting it on, and he wore a grey hat. The cab started to move away, but John swore he saw a black curl and a sharp, blue eye that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes. 

"Hey, hold on!" John yelled, racing after the cab. "Sherlock! Stop!"

 

Tolbert knew the punishment should be more severe. He should put him on suspension and have an official inquiry, but all that would do was strain their resources and toss out additional fodder for the newspapers.

The forensics reports were disturbing. Someone had utilized a lot of resources to sully the name of Sherlock Holmes, not just through the secure police databases but also banks and financial institutions. Were it not for the work of Indigo Kendall Berwyn, they might still be in the dark. Tolbert imagined that her skill in uncovering such crimes was the primary reason behind her disappearance. Her flat had all the signs of an abduction, and a violent one at that. He could only hope to figure out what happened to her some day.

Still, even before Tolbert became Chief Inspector, it was his general opinion that there were very few reasons to expend this much energy on a single person, and all of those reasons indicated that the targeted individual pissed off people in power. Sherlock Holmes clearly had managed that; why else would a master criminal give up his entire career and future to destroy the man?

"So Lestrade," Tolbert said. "Looks like the allegations against Sherlock Holmes were false."

"Yes, sir."

"And that he managed to take down James Moriarty, who has a hefty national file as well as a file with the likes of Interpol."

"Yes, sir."

"Let me make one thing very clear, Lestrade," Tolbert said dangerously. "This is the kind of mistake that, when repeated, ends more than your career. You understand?"

"Sherlock Holmes is dead," Lestrade replied. "I couldn't ask him to consult on another case – "

"Don't be an idiot," Tolbert interrupted. "We have procedure. Clearances. Basic investigative rules. Given this Mr. Holmes's family and connections, he could have been an official consulting detective without much fuss."

"Yes, sir."

"Then why didn't you bother with it?" Tolbert asked. "A few fingerprints, a background check, and this entire mess, the Fulmer Murder Case, would've never had a hitch!"

"I understand that, sir – "

"But instead you brought this man in with no clearance and kept little to no record of his involvement. And then there's this..." Tolbert picked up the report that he received a few hours ago. "A case out in Baskerville, is it?"

"Oh, right," Lestrade replied. "That was, uh, I was on holiday, and – "

"Stop," Tolbert said. "You respected the man, I understand. This other case tells me you'd follow him into hell after monster dogs, and I can only hope he deserved that kind of loyalty."

"He did. Mostly."

"If you ever bring another consultant in off the books ever again, you'll be out of more than your job, Lestrade," Tolbert said. "That being said, since things have been mostly cleared, you're on probation."

"Thank you, sir."

"Shut up," Tolbert added. "And this whole mess? Do us both a favor and don't spread it around. I've got enough to explain. You're dismissed."

 

John returned, defeated and breathless, to 221 B Baker Street. He was losing his mind, chasing after cabbies because of their hair and eye color. It occurred him, dimly, that Mycroft could pay the entire cost of the flat. He didn't have to keep living here with the echoes of Sherlock's memory casting a shadow over his life.

Odd, for a man with little sentiment and as many photographs, that so much of him seemed to stick after death. No matter how he arranged the living room of the flat, it reflected Sherlock. 

John didn't like the idea of leaving Mrs. Hudson, but she could find new tenants with ease, given the prime location of the flat.

It was with this thought that John walked into his living room to find Mycroft Holmes. 

"Ah, hello," he said.

"Dr. Watson."

 

Sherlock Holmes rarely felt guilty. There were a few times when, seeing someone's reaction, an unfamiliar emotion stirred. One of the most palpable times was his analysis of Molly Hooper's Christmas present. When it turned out to be for him, he apologized. And he meant it.

His death guaranteed the lives of John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and he hardly felt guilty over outwitting Moriarty and surviving. But he _did_ feel guilty over making John his confessor and witness. 

Thoracic outlet syndrome gave him the idea. It was predicated on the notion that certain muscles, when overly tightened or strained, could compress arteries limiting or even preventing blood flow to the arms. Pectoralis minor syndrome, a related phenomenon, made the radial pulse incredibly weak and even nonexistent when the arm was at certain angles. Members of the ever-reliable Homeless Network Sherlock constantly tapped into, decked out in costume, only had to keep Watson far enough away to prevent him from trying to take his carotid pulse. 

With John Watson confirming his death, and Molly Hooper performing a proper autopsy, Sherlock Holmes was officially expired. It was necessary, absolutely necessary. Had Sherlock involved his brother in the charade, someone would have figured it out.

Yet he still felt like he'd done John wrong. Pointing him in the right direction on this case made Sherlock, of all things, nostalgic.

Not that he hadn't been working on mysteries in the past few weeks. Of course he had. Six weeks of lying low, doing nothing, and Sherlock Holmes _would_ be dead. Without John, though, he just didn't make as much headway. Sherlock's people skills had always been lacking, from a child, and John helped him navigate the human factor at a new level of efficiency. 

Also, John was an excellent shot and carried a handgun. Sherlock had minor fighting skills but never was much good with projectile weapons, try as he might. A soldier with a medical background who could write about complex (at least, complex to inferior minds) criminal cases? John Watson was brilliant in his own right.

Not that Sherlock would ever _say_ such things. 

As he watched John give up chasing the cab, saw his step falter, the guilt came back.

Sherlock Holmes missed John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He missed Molly Hooper, even though she had had contact with him a few weeks ago. He even missed his brother.

He never was a man for sentiment, but now it seems that sentiment had him.

 

"I suppose by now you know," Mycroft said quietly.

"Know what?"

"That my brother is alive."

John's expression became pure rage. "You evil sod – " It was idiotic to take a swing at Mycroft, but he did it anyway.

Sherlock wasn't much of a fighter, so John assumed as much of Mycroft. This assumption earned him a startlingly powerful parry and a wallop to the neck, which stunned him and knocked him to the floor.

"I advise you not to do that again, John."

"You nearly cried at his funeral!" John accused as he returned to his feet.

"Hardly," Mycroft defended. "Besides, at the time I thought he was dead."

John felt confusion seeping into his skin. "Hang on, I thought you said he was alive."

"Ah, so you don't know," Mycroft asserted. "It appears that Miss Molly Hooper aided him. My apologies for assuming you were part of it."

"Molly? Molly?" John repeated in disbelief. "No, that's... how do you even know he's alive?"

"Let's just say that several things have recently come to my attention. The first is that a man matching his description has been spotted around this very residence."

"That's hardly – "

"The second is that several missing artifacts throughout England have, quiet mysteriously, turned up. Each find was attributed to a different name, but the money all wound up in the same place."

"So, what, you think Sherlock's in the countryside, _working_?" John asked. 

"Either that, or he's restrained somewhere," Mycroft replied. "That's the only way he'd keep still, you see."

"Don't do this to me," John said. "If you had caught him, or had some kind of proof, that'd be one thing, but – "

"And third, after receiving said reports about a mysterious detective with many names, I, how shall we say, found an interested party and invested in their way."

"Why can't you just say, 'I set up another one' or something like that?" John asked. Mycroft didn't respond, and after a few seconds of silence, John continued. "Well, what happened?"

"Someone figured the case out, received payments, and in the course of said action, left fingerprints, hair, and considerable video footage. After confirming everything, he suddenly appears back here, right when his name is cleared and an old case of his is put back on track, John. Very interesting timing, don't you think?"

John considered this. "I don't believe you. And even if I did, someone else... contacted me about things, I think. She did something. Dunno what yet, and Lestrade – "

"She?" Mycroft asked.

"All I know is that she gave herself a nickname – "

"Pseudonym," Mycroft corrected.

"Fine, whatever. She's called herself the Engineer."

"Sorry?"

"I thought she was a witness or something, but it turns out she was deeply involved. She apologized and said she was trying to get close to Moriarty... said something about solace and that's it. Lestrade said it was rubbish, nothing to go on, and – "

Mycroft interrupted, "You said the Engineer?"

"Yes, I did," John said. "Why?"

"No, nothing," Mycroft said. "My apologies for disturbing you. It was not my intention." 

And with that, John was left alone with his thoughts about Sherlock Holmes. If he had helped John solve the case, why was he still in hiding? Certainly he could expect John to keep his secret, should it still be necessary. Mycroft must be wrong. 

John began to pack away his notes from the Fulmer murder, tossing everything into the same bin. His hand grabbed at the napkin that brought him to the pub, and eventually, to the close of the case. DAGGERS, PLUMBING was smeared, as if the ink was newly laid. That couldn't be right, though. Sherlock wrote this months ago. John's heart started to beat out of his chest.

He pulled out his mobile. "Molly? It's John. We need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Silver Blaze" is the title of one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes cases named for a missing race horse. The horse wasn't recognized by its owner until after the race was won.


End file.
